Dark and Stormy Knight (26 page)

The thought of what she might suffer in Queen Morgan’s cruel hands made his whole body clench with rage. The point was to save her life, not throw it away on some impossible scheme. What the bloody hell had Cathbad been thinking?

Leith turned to Tom, ready to press for more details, but changed his mind. No, he mustn’t dwell on the druid’s logic. He’d only spin like a dog chasing its own tail. He needed to focus on a solution, not the problem. He needed to come up with a plan to save Gwyneth from becoming Morgan’s tithe to the Dark Lord.

He had time to think. Far too much, sadly. They were only just setting off toward Stornoway. He had hours to kill before reaching Glenarvon. He scrubbed his face with a hand. Christ, could he use a drink.

While waiting at Callanish, he’d finished the bottle under his seat. Luckily, he’d had the foresight to buy another. Fishing out the whisky, he took a long swig, wiped the mouth, and passed the bottle to Tom. Why not? What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Or him. And it wasn’t as if the centuries-old prophet couldn’t hold his liquor.

“Tell me again what possessed Cathbad to send her on this absurd errand alone.”

“To prove her worthiness.” Tom took a pull on the bottle. “And she’s not alone. He sent one of his priests with her.”

Leith’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Which one of his priests?”

“Bran mac Febal.”

Jealousy drove a spike through Leith’s heart. Despite the name, Bran mac Febal was anything but feeble. Raven hair, piercing eyes, the body of an Olympic athlete. Truth be told, were he the least inclined toward men, he wouldn’t hesitate to invite Bran Mac Febal into his bed.

Biting his forefinger’s knuckle, Leith looked out at the scenery as he struggled to leash the green-eyed monster mauling his insides. As much as it pained him to think of her traveling through the forest in the company of temptation made flesh, it was better than her going it alone.

Tom offered the bottle. Leith seized the neck and took a long pull. The whisky was an island brand. Less peaty than he preferred, though far from undrinkable. He wiped the bottle’s mouth before handing the whisky back to Tom.

He knew Bran’s story. Everybody did. Once upon a time, he’d set off in search of Avalon after being told of the enchanted island by a faery with a silver branch. Along the way, he met the sea god, Manannan mac Lir, who told him of things to come. When at last Bran reached Avalon, the queen kept him captive for what seemed to be a year, but was actually a century.

For unknown reasons, she let Bran go, unturned, warning him not to set foot in the Hitherworld again lest he crumble into dust. So, he sailed away to Brocaliande and joined the druids.

Bran, having been to Avalon and back, would know the dangers lurking in the borderlands and how to summon the aid of Manannan mac Lir. The druid would protect Gwyneth to the best of his considerable abilities.

He ought to take comfort in that knowledge, not use it to torture himself. Should fair Gwyneth find Bran’s perfections impossible to resist, well, it was a small, albeit painful, price to pay for her safety.

Tom held out the bottle, now half gone. Leith took a healthy slug. The whisky burned his gullet and warmed his wame. It also took the edge off his angst. He wiped the bottle and passed it back to Tom.

Rolling down the window, Leith lit a cigarette, smoked with vehemence, and let the wind take the ash and smoke. The landscape was flat, the sky gray and dreary. Not unlike his mood.

He already missed Gwyneth like mad, damn them all—the druids and their crafty ways, Morgan and her curse, Cumberland the Butcher, and even the so-called Bonnie Prince.

Each had played a role in stealing his happiness.

If only there was a way for him to cross the veil. But there wasn’t, unless Morgan allowed it, and that wasn’t going to happen.

Unless…

As he sat there smoking with the cool wind in his hair, the idea put down roots. He could not appeal to Queen Morgan directly, as the Cup of Truth would give away his intent, but he could send an envoy to speak for him—someone who believed the appeal he made on Leith’s behalf was genuine.

And he knew just the trusting soul to prevail upon.

Sir Axel Lochlann, the knight who guarded the portal into Avalon at Fairy Glen in Rosemarkie.

A Scot of Viking descent, Sir Axel was a good man. In life, he’d been a noble who’d been deprived of his property and title by King Edward I, the self-proclaimed “Hammer of the Scots.” He’d joined Robert the Bruce’s crusade to free Scotland from Edward’s tyranny and was knighted on the battlefield beside James Douglas. He’d been “recruited” by Queen Morgan after falling at the pivotal Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.

Many were the times they’d swapped war stories over a bottle, first in the main hall of the knight’s quarters, and later, in the glen.

Even so, Axel would not be easy to persuade. Being a stubborn Taurus, he was fiercely loyal, devoted to duty, and slow to act. Still, it was worth a try. The worst the big Scotch-Norseman could do was refuse to vouch for him. Should that happen, he’d be no worse off than he was at present.

Leith licked his lips, tasting bitter tobacco and sea wind. Good. That was settled, then. He’d go to Fairy Glen as soon as possible. Meanwhile, he’d send the signed contracts to Gwyneth’s contact at Pinnacle Pictures and get his other affairs in order. If he did gain entrance to Avalon, there was no telling how long he’d be gone. He needed to ensure Mr. Brody and Mrs. King had the means to look after Glenarvon in his absence.

Heartened by his plan, he returned his thoughts to Gwyneth with more optimism. What if she succeeded in her quest? If Cathbad sent her after the cup, it must play a role in breaking his curse, which made sense.

He shook his head, hard. No. Action, not wishful thinking, would win the day. Turning to Tom, he offered the bottle. The prophet waved it away, so Leith replaced the cork and stowed the whisky under the seat. The bottle clinked against something metal. The biker’s pistol. He’d forgotten all about it. The gun would be of little use to him in Avalon, but might help grease the way.

Sir Axel, as he recalled, had a weakness for modern firearms.

“Oh, blast,” Tom said. “I almost forgot. Queen Morgan’s been hiring vampire mercenaries. Cathbad thinks she might be raising an army to thwart the prophecy.”

Fuck!

Turning an angstful gaze on Tom, Leith said, “Does she know about Finn?”

“Cathbad suspects as much, but can’t be sure.”

Leith swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. If Morgan knew about Finn, she also knew he’d deceived her about Belphoebe, which did not bode well for his plan.

* * * *

“The Cup of Truth of the Lord of the Sea?” Gwyn’s fertile imagination was already spinning the fresh bale of straw into gold. “Do tell.”

The forest grew denser and the hour later, but the sun still shone brightly above the canopy of leafy green branches. In the Thitherworld, Bran had explained, the sun never set, flowers never faded, and the seasons never changed. Aside from occasional rains to quench the thirst of flora and fauna, the weather was the same day and night: a temperate seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit with cloudless skies and mild breezes.

“As the magician of the Tuatha de Danann, Manannan had many enchanted treasures,” the druid answered, keeping his horse abreast, “among them a bag full of undefeatable weapons, a cloak of invisibility, and the Cup of Truth.”

Gwyn knew about the cloak from her father’s stories. In one of them, Manannan used it to separate his wife and her lover, the hero Cuchulainn. Shaking the cloak between the pair made them forget one another.

“How does the Cup of Truth work, exactly?”

Bran shifted in his saddle. “If a lie is told over the cup, it will break into three pieces. To bring the pieces together again, the truth must be spoken in similar fashion.”

“And how did the cup come to be in Queen Morgan’s possession?”

“A long time ago, Manannan gave the Cup of Truth to Cormac mac Airt, one of the High Kings of Ireland, who used it to determine falsehood from truth during his reign. The cup disappeared after he died. We believe it was stolen by his faery lover, who, for unknown reasons, gave the object to her queen.”

As Gwyn mulled over how she might use this knowledge to her advantage, they came out of the woods into a circular clearing carpeted with a variety of grasses and wildflowers. She squinted against the sudden unfettered sunlight. There was a forest beyond, denser and more sinister looking than the one they’d just come through. Bran steered his mount toward a gap in the trees. “This is the start of the borderlands.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?”

Gwyn’s stomach tightened as she followed him across the small meadow. As they picked up the trail again, it began to climb. Leaning sideways to peer around Bran, she could see the path running through the creepy wood. It was open to the sky in some places and overshadowed in others by gnarled, vine-entwined limbs.

As they rode, she sensed the ill will of the wood pressing in on her. No birdsong could be heard, only the bells on their bridles and the fall of hooves thumping on bare ground or crunching dry leaves. Every now and then, a twig snapped, giving her heart a jolt. The uncanny feeling they were being watched made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Remembering that goblins didn’t like loud singing, she belted out the first song that came into her head.

“
Black is the color of my true love’s hair

His face so soft and wondrous fair

The purest eyes and the strongest hands

I love the ground on where he stands

Black is the color of my true love’s hair

Of my true love’s hair
.”

Bran turned around and gave her a funny look. She hoped he didn’t think she meant him. Yes, the druid was dreamy and had black hair, but her tarnished knight was and always would be her one true love.

No one else can ever possess my heart—never—never.

Yes, that was exactly how she felt about Leith. As she carried on singing, her mind jumped back to that romantic afternoon they’d spent picnicking on the banks of Loch Ness.

Heaviness in her chest soon crushed the joy engendered by the memory. She missed him so much right then, she could scarcely draw breath.

Oh, God, why must I be parted from one I so love?

This time, rather than resent the line, she related to it. Tears tightened her throat, strangling her song.

In the ensuing silence, the forest seemed even more oppressive and spooky. Just behind her, something crashed. Heart in her throat, she turned to see what had made the noise. A tree branch had fallen across the path. Her gust of relief evaporated when she noticed something seemingly impossible.

Behind them, the trees had drawn together over the path.

Pulse quickening, her gaze shot toward Bran. “The trees. Behind us. Have moved.”

In one swift, fluid motion, he drew his bow. As he shot the arrow, he said, “The trees are the least of our troubles.”

* * * *

Assuming Leith’s plan to get into Avalon worked, how the devil would he find his wee mouse and get out again? Standing at the rail of the Caledonian MacBrayne ferryboat with the icy ocean wind whipping his hair around his face, Leith thought long and hard on the question.

To his great vexation, no answer came.

Turning the problem over to his subconscious to solve, he lit a cigarette, set his foot on the rail, and looked out across the Minch. The view of the opposite shore’s low green hills and quaint white dwellings was striking. Under him, the sea was a bit rougher than on the journey over, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

His father had been a privateer before turning to shipbuilding. He’d been named after a port city. Despite having sailed little himself, the sea was in his blood.

Leaning over the rail, he looked down. Beneath the shimmering gray surface, dolphins swam alongside the boat. Above, seabirds screeched to be fed by the passengers who’d availed themselves of the on-board cafe.

There was a well-stocked bar on the ferry, too, which he planned to patronize as soon as he finished his cigarette. He and Tom, who’d gone inside to get out of the wind, had long since polished off the bottle he’d purchased at Callanish.

He felt a bit buzzed, but not enough to quell the despair he felt over Gwyneth. Samhain was only a fortnight hence. Getting to her in time would take nothing short of a miracle.

He closed his eyes and began to pray to any deity willing to listen.

Please, let me get to her in time and, should that prove impossible, please keep her safe.

No, wait.

If he was going to make an appeal to the gods, let it be for a miracle: that his darling mouse might somehow succeed in her quest to secure the Cup of Truth and break his bedeviling curse. That way, they could be married and have that Hollywood ending her heart was so set upon.

And now, God help him, so was his.

* * * *

Gwyn watched in horror as Bran let the arrow fly. It struck its target—a grotesque, deformed-looking creature with pocked gray skin, bulging yellow eyes, jagged-teeth, and bat-like ears. The goblin stumbled backward and let out a shriek as offensive to the ears as its appearance was to the eyes.

“Come on,” Bran bellowed, kicking his horse. “Goblins never stray far from their horde.”

She dug in her heels. As the horse lurched forward, she clamped her thighs over its ribs and twisted her fingers in its mane. Falling off was not an option.

No sooner had the horses taken off at breakneck speed, then a swarm of the hideous creatures poured from between every tree.

They rode hard for what seemed like miles and miles before the goblins finally gave up the pursuit. Gwyn, sore and shaken, shook all over from fear and exertion.

“What would they have done if they caught us?”

Bran’s expression gravened. “Because I’m a druid, they would sacrifice me to their gods and use me as a vessel for divination.”

She frowned at him, half-confused, half-appalled. “How exactly would they do that?”

“Through what’s called
anthropomancy,
the practice of using the entrails of the dead or dying to divine the will of the gods.”